


Time Past and Time Present

by orphean



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Choking, Dominance, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Submission, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 02:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11430978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: 'One day, Harrison Wells had judged his protégé and found him wanting.'Harrison visits Hartley in his cell.





	Time Past and Time Present

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: some very dubious consent, dominance/submission, choking, slapping, homophobic slurs, blood, self-loathing and a gratuitous T.S. Eliot quote.
> 
> Set in the altered "Flash Back" timeline. Some discussion of Harrison/Barry.

Hartley Rathaway didn’t know where he had gone wrong. It was not when he told Dr Wells ( _Harrison_ ) about his fears about the particle accelerator. The security guards were already ready to escort him out (do not pass go, do not collect $200, do not collect your things at your desk) when he stepped out of the particle accelerator. It had been earlier, it must have been earlier. One day, Harrison Wells had judged his protégé and found him wanting.

And he was wanting. Wanting in every sense of the word. Never bright enough, never smart enough. He was the waning moon to Harrison Wells’ supernova. But he wanted to be enough. He wanted to be smart enough, bright enough,  _desirable_ enough. He wanted to prove himself. He wanted wanted wanted. He wanted Harrison, all piercing eyes and lanky frame, all body and all mind. He wanted to wait on him hand and foot for just a fraction of that smile, for the twinkle in his eye. For a moment of appreciation from him, Hartley was willing to do anything.

Maybe that was it. Maybe Harrison wanted someone with a spine, and Hartley had always been a coward. Pathetic. Useless. How else could he have ended up in the same cell twice? A cell padded like a mental asylum, not unlike the ones his father would threaten him with every time he voiced an opinion, opened his mouth, existed.

His father. What would the great Osgood Rathaway say if he saw him here? Would he care? Would he demand for his son to be released, see the errors of his ways? Or maybe he would laugh. Maybe this was all a filthy fucking faggot (even mother, dear cold mother, gasped when she heard those words from her husband’s mouth) like him deserved. Sleep with the devil, end up in hell. Sleep with Harrison Wells, rot in a cell.

‘Are you comfortable?’ Hartley almost jumped out of his skin at that voice, a voice he knew so well, a voice of honey and nails. Hartley didn’t know how he could’ve missed the approach of the wheelchair, with its constant whirring of the gears and clicks of the buttons, but there he was. Harrison Wells, in the flesh.

‘Are you here to gloat?’

‘Why would I do that, Hartley?’ hearing his name spoken so softly, so tenderly, made Hartley doubt everything. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he could – no.  _No_. He knew the truth, or at least, he knew enough of the truth to know that this was what he did. Harrison lied with syrupy sweetness; his kindness was a mask. He was looking for weakness, and he would not find it. Not today.

‘I thought you’d be busy with your new toy.’ The last word, dripping with scorn. As hard as it was to keep his voice steady, the thought of the Flash gave him something to grip onto. He affected ease, looking at his fingernails in attempted contempt. ‘Is he any good, then? Your little _Barry Allen_.’ If Harrison was surprised that Hartley knew the man behind the mask, he didn’t show it. ‘He’s cute, if nothing else. Looks good in leather. Your choice, I guess? You always did like the rough shit. Does he cry? Do you have to –’

‘ _Hartley_.’ the name was a warning, a final caution. This voice, too, Hartley knew well. It was the voice that told him to put his hands together for the cuffs, to open his mouth for the gag, to back down and take what was coming to him. He squirmed against the wall, hoping against hope that Harrison didn’t notice.

‘Anyway, can’t imagine he lasts long. Done in a flash, eh?’

Harrison moved closer, his face almost flush with the glass. His eyes, frighteningly blue, narrowed. He spoke with wary interest.

‘Why would it matter to you?’

Hartley shrugged. Paused. Sarcastic, not wounded. Flippant, not hurt.

‘You groomed him for ten months, it just seems a lot of work. And with a name like _Bartholomew_ … I just don’t know if it’d be worth it.’

‘I’ve never touched him.’ Hartley was surprised at the straight answer. He was surprised, too, that he almost believed it.

‘Bet you want to, though.’ Hartley met Harrison’s gaze. Passive, waiting, expectant. And a fleeting glimpse of… desire? The white king surveying the board, anticipating the next play. He couldn’t believe he had gotten this far. Talking back to Harrison was never easy, as often as not rewarded with a slap or an unbuckled belt. He had rarely done it, for fear of reprisal. But now there was nothing to lose. Hoisting himself onto his knees, he moved closer. It was not until he had almost reached the glass, no more than an inch away from Harrison, that he realised he was on his hands and knees ( _again_ ). He hoped he managed the saunter of a lion, not the crawl of a child. Straightening, he looked up into Harrison’s face, and braced himself. ‘Another brilliant boy, barely out of his teens. Adoring you, bordering on worship. Ready and willing to be made into one of your machines. Pliant and sweet. Never says no to anything.’ _Just like me_. ‘But do you really think he could compare to me?’

Harrison smiled. And Hartley knew he had fallen into a trap.

‘You still need me, Hartley.’ It was barely a murmur, but the words reverberated in Hartley’s head, worse than a scream, worse than head trauma.

‘No!’ Too angry, too brash, too quick a reply. Clenched his fists, tried again. Voice cold, voice passive, dripping with ice. ‘I could have killed you.’

‘But you didn’t. You couldn’t.’ A pause, a split-second, an ocean of noise. ‘You never could do anything right.’

The words were like a gunshot to his head. Hartley’s vision blurred, his mouth gasped for air. A million shattered moments, a million pieces of evidence that proved to the world that he was _never good enough_. His father’s disappointed gaze; schoolyard taunts; the whispered insults in class; his mother’s constant sighs. Every friend he ever had leaving without good bye; every night he had woken up alone; every night he had woken up next to a stranger; everything he had ever been; everything he would ever be. And Harrison Harrison Harrison. The only one who gave him the chance to prove himself. The person he let down the most.

He was on the floor again, knuckles pressed into the concrete, breathing hard, fighting for control. A hand on his shoulder, another over one of his hand. Opening his eyes, he allowed the world to come into focus. The hand on his shoulder moved, breathed over his jawline, caught his chin between finger and thumb. Harrison’s eyes, too-blue and neverending. Hartley’s breath, too-short and catching.

‘Breathe,’ a soft command. The door to the cell was open, the wheelchair discarded. Harrison’s hands were on him; Harrison’s fingers on his face. A thumb running over his lips. He had lost. He was lost.

(Harrison could walk; he had been lying lying lying. Hartley knew this, _he knew this_ , and yet he still let him touch him, let him speak so softly to him. And still he could not say no.)

‘Did you really think you could beat the Flash?’

Hartley couldn’t say anything, Harrison’s face too close to his, Harrison’s fingers too hot on his skin. Hartley could never beat _him_. He could never defeat the man who so fully reduced him to rubble. But he had needed to do _something_. A man with the speed of lightning is nothing compared Harrison Wells.

‘ _Audentes Fortuna iuvat._ ’ A breath, not a whisper.

‘Fortune favours the bold.’ The rasp of his voice, the molasses and the iron and Hartley was falling falling falling. Harrison so close that he couldn’t see how they were still separate entities, how Harrison hadn’t subsumed him and taken those few worthwhile parts of his existence and discarded the rest of his worthless life. ‘I always did favour you, Hartley.’

A moment of silence, an intake of breath, lips meeting lips. Soft, gentle, like the evening breeze that brings relief to a sun-soaked town. Long-awaited. Long longed for. Harrison’s hand rested gently against his neck and Hartley pushed his face ever-so-closer, releasing a breath that was as much a shiver as a sob. He was a starving man offered a king’s feast. Too rich, too much, but irresistible.

It had so rarely been like this before. Harrison Wells did not deal in softness: he dealt with power; he dealt with force; he dealt with certainty. Certainty of where a kiss would lead. But this was different. Hartley remembered his very first kiss – some anonymous boy in an abandoned classroom. A kiss that did not know what it meant. A kiss that could not say where it was headed. A kiss that simply was.

This was like that first kiss.

(Not like _their_ first kiss. That had been of eagerness and clamour, staking a claim and demanding more. It had been teeth clashing, glasses knocking, feet stumbling. It had been a promise. A promise capaciously kept.)

But as winter melts to spring, as the day fades into dusk, nothing stays. The kiss ended, a ghost upon their lips. And in the silence, the silence of hearts beating hard and blood rushing through veins, Harrison moved. The hand on Hartley's neck became a claw, pushing back and down. The other hand, snaking up his body, from his hand, up his arm, pushing on his shoulder. Hartley toppled over, slamming into the ground, a tangle of twisted limbs and anticipation. And Harrison on top of him, his knees aligned with Hartley's hips, his eyes dark, his glasses gone. He was a roving wolf, preparing to pounce. Hartley was the rabbit, the deer, the lemming ready to jump off a cliff at his command.  
  
Hartley wished he had learnt to lie, lie the way Harrison breathed. He wished he could say that he had been strong, that he had been free of longing and desire. But he hadn't. He had dreamt of this. He had dreamt of Harrison Wells, this god of bronze and iron, this planner of a golden future. He had fantasised about his hands on him, searching, claiming, taking. He had touched himself to this image so many times, frantic tugs (nothing like Harrison's calm, steady, teasing touch), every orgasm a flash of grey blue eyes. Every aftermath a mix of shame, despair, and immutable longing.

Because it would never happen again. Harrison had cast him out; his touch was a boon no longer permitted. Their bodies touching was purely a thing of the past. And yet. Harrison’s hand pressing so softly on his windpipe ( _time past and time future_ ), Harrison dragging his bottom lip through his teeth ( _what might have been_ ), Harrison lowering his frame inch by in ( _and what has been_ ), Harrison’s breathing hot against his face ( _point to one end_ ), Harrison’s mouth pressing down upon Hartley’s ( _which is always the present_ ). Already this was too much, Hartley bucking his hips, desperate for friction.

(Willing and able, always willing and able.)

Hartley squirmed when Harrison lowered his hips, leaning on his haunches, pressing pressing pressing against him. He keened into the friction, already begging ( _please fuck_ _please please thank you please_ ) into the kisses, wilder now, Harrison biting down on his lip, Harrison’s fingers running ever-so-softly down his neck. One hand in his hair, pulling his head up, and Harrison’s mouth on his jaw, kissing, biting, growling into his skin. And Hartley remembered other parts of body than his mouth, his neck, his jaw, his cock. He remembered his hands, running them up Harrison’s chest, tugging under his shirt, clawing into his skin, needing to be closer closer closer, skin on skin.

Harrison broke contact, lifting his face, removing his hands. Hartley whimpered; Harrison smiled, a panther fixed upon his prey. His fingers (his long, slender, beautiful fingers) brushed against his jaw again, fixing upon the buckle of his coat, pulling the leather strap tight against his throat before releasing the prong of the frame, the coat dropping open. Harrison leaned down, his tongue running down Hartley’s throat, biting every inch of uncovered skin. Hartley’s eyes, tightly shut; Hartley’s hands, still under Harrison’s shirt; Hartley’s body, electricity coursing through his veins, aching for release.

Movement. Harrison was on his feet again, looking down at Hartley. He propped himself up on his elbows, painfully aware of how pathetic he must look, the marks on his neck, the proof of his arousal, the want etched all over his face.

Harrison circled Hartley, the beast surveying his quarry. His cool demeanour had slipped, just a little. Hartley could see a raw hunger in his eyes, the impatient twitch of his hands, the outline of his cock against the fabric of his trousers. Hartley considered – more than considered, he wanted this very badly – getting onto his knees, getting to work on buckle and zipper. But, no, he didn’t want to risk whatever what was about to happen. Harrison came to a halt at his feet and fell on his knees.

He placed one of Hartley’s feet in his lap and ran his fingers up to the knot at his boot.

‘A little warm, aren’t they?’ he asked, meeting Hartley’s eyes. Without waiting for a response, he untied the top knot and began slowly undoing the laces, pulling them through the eyelets. Hartley didn’t know if he should tell him that there was a zipper on the side, but his hand was already pressed against it, holding his calf tightly, surely he knew? This was something else, something more. This was a show of force, perhaps, a show of kindness. Whatever it was, Hartley’s eyes flicked between Harrison’s gaze and the way his long fingers looped the laces free. Harrison’s eyes stayed on Hartley’s face, as if daring him to kick back, to move an inch.

For the first time, Hartley realised that he could get up, he could run, he could escape. He knew the way out, he could get out. And yet, he could not move.

Harrison finished unlacing the first boot, gently tugging it off his foot, planting it beside him. He lifted the other foot and started on the second set of laces. His movements were slow, measured, maddening. Hartley was desperate for _something_ to happen. He shrugged out of his coat, trying to move as little as possible. Harrison’s eyes narrowed a little, a warning for Hartley to still, but his spidery fingers kept to their task, calmly removing the laces. After what felt like hours, the second boot came off and was planted neatly next to its mate. Harrison exhaled, a slight, triumphant, sneer playing on his lips.

‘Strip.’

One word, five letters, but said with such precision and intent. Instantly, Hartley scrambled, ineffectual hands ripping at his shirt, unable to keep his fingers from slipping on his buttons, struggling with the buttons on his jeans. Harrison didn’t move a muscle, but stayed where he was, legs folded, forearms against his knees, hands hanging, his eyes locked on Hartley’s awkward, eager striptease.

Once he was naked, Harrison pounced, pushing Hartley down again, meeting lips with teeth, a force of ferocity. And, just like that gentle kiss had been unlike anything else, so this, this was different, too. It wasn’t that Harrison hadn’t been rough before – he had, he was, more often than not –  but this was _more_ , this was _worse_. This was not Harrison’s hand pressing down upon Hartley’s throat, ordering him not to come; this was not Hartley pinned to the ground, a mask of lust and greed etched upon Harrison’s face; this was not Harrison biting down hard enough to bruise, Hartley was transfixed into stillness. This was retribution for some slight forgotten; this was punishment for Hartley’s failings and weaknesses; this was all he deserved.

Hartley knew he should push against, that he should beg him to stop, that he should stand up for himself for _once_ in his life. (And he thought, for a split second, of the last time he had tried to stand up for himself; he thought of how easily Harrison had discarded him, how he had watched his fall from grace with an air of disinterest.) But he wanted this. He wish he didn’t, but he had fantasised about Harrison’s hands on him, about Harrison pretending to give half a damn.

Harrison, taking. Hartley, taken.

‘What do you want?’ Harrison’s voice was a growl, his ophidian fingers sliding up and down his body, every touch a jolt of electricity. Hartley was losing his mind.

‘I want you.’

Harrison was stroking his hair now, gently, softly – so at odds with his unspoken promise of violence.

‘And what will you let me do to you?’

‘Anything.’

Harrison smiled – and Hartley thought of Barry Allen, the new golden boy, the perfect creation. His _Flash_. He wondered if Harrison did to him what he had done to Hartley, if he strung him along with sweet words and encouragements, if he eked out devotion in every way he could. Was he flushed and ready, with his perfect mouth and loving eyes? Did he take him in his four poster bed, spread out below the canopy of glass? Harrison was a fool if he didn’t. But not like this, not on a concrete floor in a dirty cell. Barry, the chosen one, would never have to stoop this low.

Hartley looked up, waiting for instructions, waiting for orders. He only half-expected the slap across his face – open-palmed, hard enough to smart, light enough not to bruise. It was an encouragement, an incentive for action. (Did he hit Barry? Surely not, his skin so pristine and his face so sweet. Hartley felt a sick satisfaction that this was something that was _his_ ; this was something he did not have to share.)

‘Get on your knees.’ Harrison had moved again, on his feet, hands deftly unbuckling his belt. _He_ wasn’t fazed by this; his body wasn’t quaking in anticipation. He was hard, but he was in control. ‘Go on, get to it.’

(Hartley remembered the first time they’d done this, the first time he’d done this for him. The second time Harrison had pushed him up against his desk, the second time he had taken his face between his hands and Hartley had felt he could do anything at all. He had murmured something stupidly infantile, _please please let me suck you off_ , desperately, impatiently, and Harrison’s face had lit up in cruel satisfaction – _if you insist._ He hadn’t even looked to make sure that everyone had left for the day, just backed away enough for Hartley to drop on his knees, unbelt his pants and get to work. He wasn’t sure if it was because they might have been walked on at any minute or because this was Harrison, _Harrison_ , already the subject of so many fantasies, but with Harrison’s hand in his hair and Harrison’s whispered encouragements, Hartley had never been so eager to please, Hartley had never been so desperate to make someone come. Once Harrison was done, once Harrison came on his favourite silk cashmere pullover – a stain that never washed out, and a shirt Hartley would wear when alone with Harrison to show his devotion – he ran a finger over his swollen lips and smiled. _I want you to touch yourself later. I want you to think about me. And I will know_.)

Fingers tangled in his hair, beckoning him closer, Hartley took him in hand, took him in mouth, and wondered why Harrison wanted this. Why he would ever want him. Was he just a body, just a mouth? Did who he was not matter, could he have been any boy off the street? But, no. He was Hartley Rathaway, the brightest fuck-up of his generation. A genius in his own right, brought to his knees for a worship so different from his childhood Sundays. Valued for his clever tongue, not his clever mouth. Reduced to nothing, the once-celebrated prodigy only good for sucking cock. His father had said that his disgusting tendencies would bring him down in the end, and that it was no more than he deserved. So it was. And yet, he wanted it, too. He would rather be on his knees for Harrison Wells than on top of the world without him.

He loved this, but he wanted more, he needed more. Despite Harrison’s fingers digging into his scalp, despite the murmured words of encouragement, despite his sighs and ragged breaths, despite the look on his face that could almost be affection, Hartley reached down to stroke himself, to –

‘ _No_.’ His head was yanked back, his mouth tender and wet. Harrison’s palm was upon his face, a harder slap this time, one that would soon bruise green and blue. Not the first time, but perhaps the last. ‘Did I _say_ you could do that? Did I say you could touch yourself?’ A second yank, and Hartley clattered down onto the hard ground. Harrison ran a hand through his own hair, disappointment and disdain fighting on his face. ‘Christ, what are you even good for?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Hartley propped himself up on his elbows (slowly, wary of another flash of rage), pushed hair out of his face and tried to meet Harrison’s eye. It was difficult. He was so _disappointed_. Everything on his face told him that he wasn’t good enough, that he was just too hopeless. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘Oh, it _will_ ,’ Harrison sneered, ‘but not until I tell you to. Yes?’ Hartley nodded, just barely, still wary. ‘ _Yes_?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then, because you promise to be good.’ Harrison’s eyes were on Hartley, his tongue running along his bottom lip. ‘Flip over.’

Hartley obeyed, pushing his palms flat against the concrete, pressing his fingers into the ground, trying to even his breathing. Harrison’s fingers ran along his body and Hartley wondered if he could feel how he shivered, how each and every one of his nerve endings was working in overtime, the rough fingertips overwhelming against his skin.

‘You do promise to be good, don’t you?’ Harrison had leaned forward, mouth against his ear, body pressed against his. Hartley forgot to breathe.

‘I do, I do. I’ll be good.’

‘Good boy,’ Harrison smiled against his shoulder blade, planted kisses down his spine. Hartley’s breath caught – again – and he clenched a fist, trying to remember to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

 _In_. Two slender, slippery, probing fingers slowly slid inside him and Hartley bit his tongue, Hartley squeezed his eyes shut, Hartley said a prayer to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore for just a little more patience, for just a few more minutes of poise and control.

Fingers reaching, fingers spreading. He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, the taste of iron a distraction that tethered him, a pain that kept him in check. There was a buzz in his ears, but it was different from the screams he had become used to, the shrieks he had been free of since he had accepted those replacement ear pieces. This was a droning of blood rushing, of breath unbreathed, of composure slipping. He felt Harrison’s other hand, grasping him by the jaw, twisting his face around. He opened his eyes.

Harrison’s face was calm, fixed. His eyes glittered with dark purpose, his lips were slightly parted. He kept his gaze on Hartley’s face, and Hartley tried to meet the gaze, tried to keep his eyes focused, tried to ignore the fever running through his veins.

‘I always liked you like this. So soon, and ready to burst. I’m sure it wouldn’t take more than a touch.’ His voice was melting caramel, and Hartley felt himself sinking even further. ‘But not yet. I’m sure you can make it – you were always so obedient.’ He ran a thumb over his jaw, over his cheek, over his lip, blood collecting on his finger tip. He smiled. ‘I always loved how frail you were. I’m glad that hasn’t changed.’

 _I always loved_.

The hand moved away, coming to a rest on the small of his back. The fingers withdrew, and by now, despite the months since the last time it had happened, Hartley shouldn’t be surprised, not after all these times, Hartley should be aware of how it would feel, and yet he did not expect the emptiness he felt, the hollow he needed filled. But he recalled the _anticipation_ , the few brief moments it took for Harrison to ready himself, the way the world shifted into too-harsh focus.

Harrison’s hands on his hips, Harrison pushing against him, into him. It _hurt_ , Christ, this hurt more than anything Harrison had ever done before. Hartley squeezed his hands, fingernails digging into palms, new moons of blood pooling on skin; he bit his tongue to choke back the whimpers of pain.

‘Quit your snivelling.’

‘It hurts, _please_ , I just – give me a moment, please stop, please –’ Harrison stilled. Hartley blinked the tears out of his eyes, straightened his fingers, tried to pull himself together, a little, too late. He felt Harrison lean closer, felt his breath hot against his skin.

‘Hartley, I thought you said I could anything I wanted? And this,’ a hand again on the small of his back, another push, further, deeper, ‘is what I want. So I hope that you can be better than that.’

He exhaled, tried to be as little as he could, tried to be nothing that Harrison would take offense to, tried to keep his body from twisting, his knees from buckling. Because Harrison was right; this was what he had asked for; this was nothing more than he deserved; this was so much more than he deserved. And so, moment by moment, stroke by stroke, his breath evened. He removed his glasses with quivering fingers, and that, too, helped. His fingers were less tightly pushed into the ground, his body was shaking  just a little less. The seams of the padded cells were less clear, and the blue might just as well have been a sea, a sky, a dream. The pain, he told himself, was nothing but the blare in his ears, just something else that was Harrison Wells’ fault. He got used to this, as he had got used to it before, and as (he hoped, he prayed, and yet he hoped and prayed against it, too) he would never have to again.

Harrison inside him; Harrison’s hands pushing down on him; Harrison Harrison Harrison. Hartley hated himself for this, hated how he was unable to make what his mind was saying ( _this is bad_ no no no _this is not what I want please be done and please be gone_ ) master what his body was asking for ( _closer, deeper, let me make you come, please please let me come_ ).

Like clay in Harrison’s hands, Hartley knew he would do whatever Harrison commanded. A hand, now, in his hair, pulling back and pushing forward. The rhythm steadied, intensified, and every stroke was bring Hartley closer to the edge, skin burning, electric bolts through his body, closer closer closer. Harrison knew – of course he knew.

‘I want you to touch yourself, but don’t you _dare_ come.’

Hartley obeyed – of course he obeyed. His fingers closed around his cock, already slick with anticipation, every stroke a charge building in his stomach. Harrison stilled, deep inside him, watching, waiting, making sure he followed orders. It was hard not to come, it was so hard, every touch another little murder, every moment drawing him a little closer to completion. But he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, not yet. He wouldn’t let Harrison down like that.

‘Good. You can stop now.’

His hand slammed back onto the ground, his breath just a little less frantic, his blood running just a little less hot. A riposte. A second, no more. Harrison’s hands closing down on his throat, Harrison moving again, rough and hard and invincible. Hartley wondered if he’d be wearing a necklace of fingerprints tomorrow, a badge of honour to go with the bruise budding on his cheekbone. Then, he was unable to wonder anything at all, barely able to stay upright, his oxygen supply cut off, the world bleeding into darkness. Weakly his fingers struck against stone, a desperate plea for mercy. The pressure lifted for a second, two seconds, descended again. Fucked, choked, waiting for orders, for any way to prove his devotion. Hartley Rathaway, on hands and knees and ready to explode.

‘Hartley, I want you to come.’ A whispered voice in his ear, a whispered touch against his cock, and that was enough. A million stars coruscating in front of his eyes, a thousand seas roaring in his ears. Shame soon overtook the relief. Coming on command, like the perfect lap-dog. He wanted to be left alone, he wanted Harrison to go, he wanted anything but to stay here with him. But he knew Harrison wouldn’t go, not yet. He wasn’t done.

So Hartley closed his eyes, and he tried to focus on his breathing. He thought about where he would run to when he got out of here, and didn’t think of Harrison’s hands on his body, fingers wet with his cum. He felt the stone beneath his trembling fingers, and didn’t feel Harrison pushing still deeper, harder, faster. He listened to the susurration of his broken ears, and didn’t listen to Harrison’s taunts, breaths, sighs. He didn’t taste the blood in his mouth; he didn’t smell the sweat in the air. He didn’t see anything but the whirling blood of his eyelids. He sensed nothing, he was nothing.

He was nothing, that was true, but the rest of it wasn’t. Every inch of his body was on high alert, screaming with impressions that he would rather not have. He didn’t want to feel Harrison’s fingers press against windpipe, he didn’t want to see the world fade to a darker red. He didn’t want Harrison’s nails running down his scalp, down his back, lacerating skin, bringing forth blossoms of blood. He didn’t want to be fucked like this, he didn’t want Harrison’s cock. He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t. (He did.) Harrison tearing into him, through him, without mercy, without pause, without care. Hartley no longer able to quiet his whimpers, his sobs, his pleas. _Please please please_.

And then. It was over, Harrison coming hard, hands pushing down, clawing at skin. And despite himself, despite every cell in his body telling him to run, to hide, Hartley wished, Hartley hoped, that he would stay, kiss his face, speak kindly to him. But Harrison Wells had eyes of ice and a heart to match. He got on his feet, wiped his hands on his shirt, buttoned himself up.

‘You should get dressed. The others will be back soon, and they have convinced me to let you go.’ He nudged at Hartley’s chin with the toe of his shoe, lifting his face. Their eyes met, and Harrison was something colder than ice. Hartley was the roach to be squashed under his boot. ‘I do hope you’ll behave.’

Soon, Harrison was gone and the door to the cell closed. Collecting his clothes, mindful of blood, scratches and budding bruises, Hartley got dressed again. The last thing he recovered was his boots, rethreading the laces through the eyelets, zipping them up. He leaned against the back wall of his cell, and – body sore, body broken – he realised when he had gone wrong.

Hartley Rathaway had gone wrong the day he fell in love with the great Harrison Wells, and for that, he never could atone.  


End file.
